


the atlantic was born today

by thewestwinged



Series: into the interdimensional portal-verse [1]
Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, Let Him Mourn I Guess, Peter B. Parker's Rare Moments Of Emotional Stability, Spider Dad, THIS ISNT SHIP SHIT DONT BE NASTY, all i write about is hugs. its my one talent, im emo for miles knowing he isnt alone...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 12:36:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17043863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewestwinged/pseuds/thewestwinged
Summary: there are some emotions, miles realizes belatedly, that he has not had time to sort through.(so about that fun inter-dimensional portal at the end)





	the atlantic was born today

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [ngày đại tây dương tái sinh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17996219) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)



The service is nice.

Miles uses the word ‘nice’ objectively, because 1. he hasn’t been to a whole lot of funerals, and 2. there is nothing  _ nice  _ about the heavy stone banging around the bottom of his chest. It’s loud and painful, and it’s been pulling him towards the ground for the better part of the past week, ever since his dad took him aside and told him how this day would go. 

They’re in the church they only go to on the holidays, scratched wooden pews and that musty-church smell Miles can’t ever really place. The priest up front is saying something about the resurrection and the life - not that Miles can hear anything over the buzzing in his ears. He pinches the spot between his thumb and pointer finger, lets the dull ache wash away all the dizziness. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live,” the priest says, voice like an avalanche, or a trash compactor. “And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

Nobody’s mentioned anything about Uncle Aaron being the Prowler, or at least his dad is torn up enough about the whole thing not to say it to his face. Miles isn’t sure whether or not he’s grateful for it. All he knows is, his stomach is sinking, like the cracked barge of a ship in ice cold waters. And everyone’s saying such nice things. How much Uncle Aaron meant to them. How he always had a way of lookin’ out for you, making you feel better.

Miles mumbles something about going to the bathroom, and slips out sideways. He feels pitying eyes at the back of his head, and does not turn around.

He makes it halfway down the tiled hallway before the ugly thing in his chest rears its head, and he finds himself pressed up against the door to an empty office, struggling for breath. It’s another moment to wrench the door open and close it behind him. And then he collapses into the corner of the room, like the sob collapses out of his throat, like everything’s falling in on him, bits of plaster and cement and that look Uncle Aaron had in his eyes when he let go, stepped back, hands raised-

There are some emotions, Miles realizes belatedly, that he has not had time to sort through.

Because saving the world - all of the worlds - and his friends, it’s nice. But at the end of the day his uncle was probably the best friend he had, and now he’s dead. And it’s easy to remember everyone’s insistence that it wasn’t his fault, but it’s so,  _ so _ hard to believe it. 

_ God _ , Miles thinks, as another cry wrenches its way out of his mouth, scraping up the sides of his throat.  _ God, I killed him _ . The thought screeches through his head like a runaway train, skips like a record the DJ stopped paying attention to, it’s the loudest thing in the world and the only thing he can hear. His chest heaves. His arms wrap around shaking knees. The linoleum floor is cold, but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel anything.

“-les?” Someone is saying. “Miles, what the-”

Miles starts, lurching onto his feet. He hiccups.

There’s something wrong with the air in front of him, is the first thing he notices. It’s bright and bubbly, contrasts with every aspect of his everything, and - well, the air isn’t supposed to be like that. 

The second thing he notices is Peter B. Parker’s concerned face, eyebrows furrowed and everything, peering at him. Through what appears to be a dimensional portal in the middle of the air.

It’s partially the surprise and partially the adrenaline of  _ something’s gone bad _ that shocks Miles out of crying. He scrubs at his face with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “Peter?”

“How are you doing that,” they both say, at once. 

Peter chuckles, a little, but it looks weird and polite. Miles can’t bring himself to do the same. “Seems like the multiverse isn’t done with us yet, huh,” he says.

Miles nods. He suddenly has lost the ability to talk. His throat is starting to close, again, and that sets a new wave of alarm bells off in the back of his head, because Peter can’t see him like… like that. “Yeah,” he forces out, biting down on his bottom lip and praying to whoever that Peter didn’t notice how badly his voice cracked. 

Of course he did, though. Peter’s maybe a little willfully obtuse, sometimes, but he isn’t stupid. His face softens, and he steps a little closer, raising a hand up and then faltering. “Kid,” he says. 

There’s no pity in his voice, Miles realizes. Just a deep kind of pain, and understanding. “I should be out there,” he manages. “I should - I shouldn’t just be  _ hiding _ here.” His chest heaves, again, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.

It’s a long, silent moment, in which Miles spirals down from mild embarrassment to downright mortification. 

And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, feather-light. 

Miles’ eyes snap open - and Peter is there, right in front of him, in a college T shirt and sweatpants, overwhelmingly human. He can count the worry lines on his forehead. 

“What the hell did you do?” Miles asks, sort of awed.

Peter shrugs. His smile is all sad edges. “Walked through,” he says. “It was kinda stupid.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“You looked like you needed a hug?”

His sentence trails off at the end, and Peter rubs the back of his neck, like he’s afraid he’s stepped over some kind of line, or something. Miles isn’t in the best place to be reading other people. All he knows in his stupid, emotionally addled brain, is that there was an offer of a hug, and at this point, he would honestly just die for some genuinely positive physical contact that didn’t make him feel like fine china.

Miles falls forward, a little bit, and Peter catches him.

He can say all he wants about Peter’s  _ shape _ , but the man gives a solid hug. He rests a hand on the back of Miles’ head, and Miles buries his face in Peter’s shoulder, trying to keep the tears to a minimum. After a moment, though, he can’t do too much about it. He gets the feeling Peter doesn’t mind.

They stand there for a long while, Miles occasionally peeking up to make sure that the portal to Peter’s dimension hasn’t collapsed. Peter doesn’t look back, not even once. He just stands there and lets Miles cry all over him and hugs him, not like he’s a lost little kid to be pitied, not like he’s in any capacity an emotional burden. Like he gets it. Which he probably does.

“Are you gonna tell me it’s not my fault?” Miles mumbles, eventually.

Peter considers this, breathing deep. “No,” he says. “You know that, already. Up here.” He taps Miles’ temple.

“‘S the rock in my chest ever gonna figure that out?”

“Honestly?” Peter asks. “Probably not. But you learn to be okay with it.”

Miles swallows, and it takes some effort, but not as much as he might have thought. He… extricates himself, for lack of a better word. Peter lets him go, straightens his tie. “Thanks,” he says, past the receding lump in his throat. “For - for everything.” He pauses, takes a breath. “About the portal, do you think the multiverse is ending again, or..?”

Peter shrugs. “Might be a side effect from being here so long before,” he says. “My advice is, don’t worry until there’s something explicitly life-threatening going on.”

That gets a laugh. Miles wipes at his eyes, again. This question is harder. “Do you think it’ll happen again?” He asks.

A soft little smile makes its way onto Peter’s face, the likes of which Miles hasn’t really seen on him. “Hope so,” Peter says, and his voice is just like it was when he was teaching Miles how to swing and he finally, finally got it right. “I need to get me some more of those burgers.”

“Well,” Miles says. “I’ll see you later, then, Spider-Man.”

The smile morphs into a proud grin. “See you later, Spider-Man,” Peter says. He stops, for a moment, and then fiddles with his keychain, presses a cold, metal charm into Miles’ hand. “Hey, keep this safe for me, would you?” he says. 

And then he’s giving Miles a two fingered salute, and walking backwards through the portal. And then he’s gone.

For a terrible second, Miles thinks that maybe he imagined the whole thing. But then he looks at the charm, a little black Spider-Man mask with a red hood. It’s sloppily painted, and he has to wonder when Peter got around to making it. Even so, it’s grounding, cool to the touch. He slips the charm onto his own key ring, squares his shoulders.

The pigeons are cooing, outside. It’s shaping up to be a pretty warm day.

**Author's Note:**

> yeet yoink im so sad about him....  
> three cheers for unedited emo shit hit me up on tumblr @ foxglovefemme!!!!


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